


impossible as always

by visionary_shimmer



Series: there are a thousand [1]
Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:54:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28536948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visionary_shimmer/pseuds/visionary_shimmer
Summary: jake walks you home.
Relationships: Jake Tapper/Reader
Series: there are a thousand [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199837
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	impossible as always

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i’m not leaving my tapper fixation in 2020. this thing is entirely un-researched and inaccurate. never written rpf or fic at all before so i’m absolutely winging it. set in an alternate universe where there’s no covid and, simply as a work around for the whole adultery thing, he and his wife have amicably separated. i don't do the "y/n" thing, so dear reader, your name is sam ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It had started with the dress. When you have a winter birthday, you either obey every inclination to stay in your warm apartment, or you go out against your better judgement, and if you do, you may end up overcompensating a bit. Decadence as rebellion against the elements. So little to celebrate in February when you’re unattached (to be more specific, newly single and arrived in DC), so why not make this outing count, overdress a bit? You’ve selected a dark green velvet dress for the occasion. It’s festive and well, obviously sexy- not usually your thing, but every once in a while, obvious is fun. You’re still young and unconnected enough not to worry too much about looking professional every minute of the day and night. You smooth your dark hair back; dare not do your make up any more than normal for fear of going full influencer-chic. Luckily, the restaurant you’re going to is quite close to your apartment- you’re renting an overpriced flat in a historic row house, which is not lacking for exterior charm but somewhat wanting for it on the inside. You’ve got a long wool coat and the fortitude forged from some bitter New York City winters, so you walk. You’ve been feeling restless anyways, birthdays and big life changes will do that to you, so the cold air feels invigorating, a welcome distraction.

The restaurant is a steakhouse, a DC institution with a mixed crowd, as befits a place that’s unconcerned with belonging to any particular scene. You and your three friends, Jess, Alex, and Marian, do stand out a bit- it's not a place that screams “girls night”- but that’s fine with you. After living in New York for several years, working in publishing, you’d grown weary of constantly chasing the newest trends. Hype, artifice, snobbery, whatever you want to call it, you’d started to feel surrounded by it, even at a job you enjoyed. Nothing felt vital or honest anymore, and your relationship with your boyfriend had grown equally stagnant and hollow. You found yourself circling back to journalism- your original career path and passion. You wanted into that world again.

Long story short, you lucked out with a job at CNN, ended both your current career and your ailing relationship, and relocated to DC. To be honest, the publishing connections did help- you worked in fiction, and it just so happened your new boss, Jake Tapper, has authored a couple of decent historical novels with another imprint of your former company. The most impressive thing about them is perhaps that he’s found the time to write them at all. He’s a busy man, strikes you as the type that needs to be everything to everyone. Working in cable news means your boss is not only a journalist but a celebrity of sorts. Ever since you got the job, friends and acquaintances alike have been curious about him. You get it; try to downplay it as much as possible.

But there was this odd moment that happened a few weeks back that you can’t help but dwell on. You’d gone up to his office to discuss a piece that you were working on, and found him busy rearranging the campaign memorabilia that covered the walls. He asked if you’d mind handing him that poster on the desk, but somehow as you did the wooden frame lodged a splinter in the pad of your index finger. The sting of it made you swear involuntarily. “Let me see,” he’d said calmly, and put on his glasses as you held out your hand hesitatingly. He scrutinized it for a brief moment, then offered to remove it, said he knew a few tricks since his dad was a doctor. He seemed just as surprised as you were when you agreed to let him try, but it was easy enough for him to squeeze some hand sanitizer over his hands and yours, fish some tweezers out from his desk drawer and deftly pass them through the flame of a lighter. It was almost amusing how seriously he was taking this. 

He took a seat on the desk and propped a foot on his chair, exposing his printed trouser socks. You gave him your hand which he gripped firmly in front of him, hunched over in his impeccable suit, his thick gray hair haloed by the overhead light. His hands were steady, his fingers long and almost elegant, you noticed. And he smelled incredible, because of course he did, but it was more than just cologne, it was that plus the warmth of his skin, and once you realize that, you realize you’re quite close to him, almost between his legs. The sound of his breathing, and yours too, seems so loud as to be somehow improper. The splinter is out in a moment, but it hurts, and it’s a reflex, you swear, that makes you put your finger in your mouth. But you hadn’t removed your eyes from his face, and when he looked up at you, maybe his gaze was a little too direct, or yours was, you’re unsure which. And if it was a turn on, well you’re an adult, what’s a little sexual tension between coworkers? Anyways, it happened so fast you almost feel like you imagined it. You said quickly that you’d better go wash your hands. He ran a hand through his hair and responded of course, you could continue your conversation later, but then that afternoon he’d let it drop in passing that he was really quite busy for the rest of the day and could you just email him to follow up? You couldn’t help but feel he’d been avoiding you since.

You’re on your main courses and are debating which bars to hit after dinner when Marian nudges you and tilts her head towards the entrance of the restaurant. “Isn’t that-?” 

God, it's him, Jake, walking in with a couple people you don’t recognize. They don’t seem like political or tv news types, which makes him stand out even more- his haircut is so expensive; his teeth are so white; his demeanor is so assured. Marian whispers, “He’s taller in person,” and yeah, she’s not wrong, but it’s not just his height that makes an impression, it's his overall presence. It’s a Friday, and he’s kept his suit and tie on from this afternoon’s show. He looks good. Obviously. For an odd moment you’re not sure if you’re praying for him to notice you or not, but it’s not long before his glance catches yours as the host is leading them through the crowded dining room. He does an actual double take, which is a bit awkward, but quickly composes a genial smile for you. He pats his companions on the back and makes his way over. Only about a quarter of the restaurant is looking at him, and your friends are desperately trying to play it cool. You’re regretting wearing a dress that leaves so little to the imagination, still, you force yourself to straighten your spine and relax your shoulders. Pretend this is fine, because it _is_ fine, right?

“Sam!” He calls to you. “Don’t tell me these are your big birthday plans. Dinner at this boring old place?” He doesn’t touch you, just gestures around the room. You’re not sure what you expected: a hug, a handshake? What’s the protocol here?

“Nothing like a birthday to remind you that you’re getting older,” you reply. “Might as well make a start with this crowd now.” You make an effort at politeness. “Guys, this is my boss. I'm sure he needs no introduction.” As soon as the last bit is out of your mouth you fear you’ve put a foot wrong, how is he supposed to respond to that?

He introduces himself anyways and shakes your friends’ hands. So it’s everyone except you, got it. To your surprise he doesn’t play to the table, after a few polite exchanges with the group he simply focuses back on you.

“I can’t believe I ran into you, actually. I’m having dinner with some people from Little, Brown. They’re in town to finalize some things for my latest vanity project, so I’m taking them out. There’s a Susan here that says she knows you from Back Bay. Actually, she’s said quite a lot about you.” He seems genuinely amused. Susan was one of your closest ex-coworkers, and she’s kind of a character. You only hope she hasn’t embarrassed you somehow. 

“Susan’s here? How did I miss her?”

He shrugs. “She got here before I did- she's already in our room in the back with the others. Would you want to come say hello? Normally I’d say you probably have better things to do on your birthday but given the fact that you’re here, well, I’m not so sure.” 

As he’s talking, you’re again struck by how expressive his eyes are. They’re slightly downturned and hooded, and when he’s concentrating there’s a plaintive, almost pained quality to them. Something about the contrast of those sad, dark eyes with his incredibly winning smile is unaccountably attractive. It also seems to reflect the mutable nature of his personality- he can switch from earnest to sarcastic in an instant, as he’s just done.

He misreads your general shyness as being insulted by his remark. “Only joking,” he says kindly. “I’ll let you enjoy your dinner. Stop by whenever.” His eyes drift down to your dress for a split second as he pats you on your bare shoulder, only to withdraw his hand quickly as if burned, or as if he’s abruptly changed his mind about the gesture. “Nice to meet you all,” he says, and then he’s gone. You can still feel the touch of his fingers on your skin after he’s walked away.

You turn back to find your friends giving you very pointed looks, clearly dying to discuss what just happened. Jess exhales dramatically. Alex, the most outspoken of your group, speaks first. “Wow.”

“Wow what?” you ask blankly.

“Where do I begin? First of all,” she continues, mercifully lowering her voice, “He’s kind of hot in person, I get the appeal now. Second of all, that was awkward. Is there something going on? Is that why you’re working late all the time? Are you- sorry I have to- tapping that?”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m not. I'm reading the energy.” The other girls nod in agreement.

“He's not like that. He's like a straight-laced wife guy.”

“I know you know as well as I do that they’re separated.”

“And I know you’re joking but seriously, we don’t even interact much. I'm definitely not one of his favorites. He has those, you know.”

“Yeah, because his favorites are people he’s friendly with. He doesn’t want to be your _friend_. I saw the way he checked you out.”

You’re determined not to give into this ridiculous line of questioning but you blush a bit at her remark. “I mean, I’m dressed differently. i don’t think he even recognized me at first.”

Jess intercedes. “Ok, ok, you’re acting like we’re giving you a hard time here. It’s a compliment. You’re so obviously banging even your boss knows it. Anyways. The question is- are you going to say hi to this Susan?”

“I have to,” you tell her. “Can I borrow your blazer? I’m not really dressed for networking.”

She acquiesces. Once you’re finished with dinner, having been forbidden from paying any part of the bill, you head over to the private room. Your friends are going to a bar close by and you assure them you’ll join them soon.

It's a bit awkward at first, Susan gushing about you to Jake and the others as soon as you walk through the door.

“Sam, it’s so good to _see_ you! Happy birthday! My god, this dress. You’re too gorgeous for DC. Aren’t you bored?” 

You tell her to knock it off, remind her she had more of a social life than you did back in New York. She has you take a seat right next to her and after introductions are made around the table, you start to feel more comfortable. Though you didn’t recognize the people Jake had walked in with, it turns out you actually had some connections in common, knew some of them more by name than face, and it’s easy to slip back into your old work persona. After catching up a bit, Susan launches into an anecdote for the table, as is her way. 

“You know, I think that last book we did together- that newest Harbach one?- was probably enough to make Sam quit. She detested his writing, thought it was drivel. And she’s right, but-” 

“Wait a second,” Jake interrupts. “Drivel? I really liked it.” 

“Jake, please, the people with taste are talking,” Susan teases.

To your shock he shrugs affably and says to you, “Susan thinks my taste is shit, I’m aware. I don’t think she even likes my own writing.” 

“Now that’s not true, I only said-” 

Susan somehow pulls off bickering with her own clients, it's a trademark, but you’re surprised to see him like this. The arrogance is dialed back and in its place is an openness. It’s a glimpse at a different self- the curiosity is still there but he’s not in anchor mode. And when Susan recounts some highlights from your publishing career, when she asks you what you think of the latest releases, you can see the wheels turning in his mind as he watches you talk. He’s assessing you, recalibrating his impression of you, but it’s not unpleasant, being under his gaze. He’s stroking his tie thoughtfully and he smiles when your eyes meet. It’s such a good smile, you can’t help but return it.

He knows a place down the street from the restaurant. It’s the dim, discreet sort of bar where anchors can go to take the edge off and have a reasonable chance of being, if not unnoticed, then ignored. Your friends have ended up at a bar in Adams-Morgan and you tell yourself you don't feel like going out there- you're really committed to the whole walking distance thing tonight. It’s just you, Susan, and a guy named Mort that have accompanied him, the others having gone back to their hotel for the night. Jake’s seated across from you at the table, tie loosened, hair starting to fall out of place and across his right temple a bit. You think you prefer it like that. Susan and Mort are deep in a discussion of some recent workplace drama, and the two of you don’t have much to contribute. He drums his fingers on the table and looks up at you.

“I’m glad you came,” he says. “You’re a hard one to figure out, but Susan’s been very illuminating.”

“You know you can’t believe half of what comes out of her mouth.”

“Really?” He tilts his head. “I’m inclined to believe everything she’s said, at least regarding you.”

Your hand comes up to rub your shoulder, the one he touched a few hours ago. It’s warm in the bar and you’ve shed your blazer- a few birthday drinks (mostly purchased by Susan) have taken your self-consciousness down a notch.

“Tell me this,” he continues, before you can consider his previous statement too closely. “I think I’ve heard it before but I’d like to again. You obviously had a great thing going at Back Bay. Why leave?” He’s giving you that imploring look. You’re not sure he’s even aware, but there’s a bit of his interview energy seeping into the conversation.

You could give him a rehearsed answer- one about the importance of the fourth estate in this perilous time in our democracy, how vital journalism is right now, etc. and that is partly why. But the true reason contains something more personal than that, a need to do the hard thing; to challenge, reinvent yourself, to recapture the feeling of limitless potential that comes from the _beginnings_ of things. You’re not sure how to say all that to him, though, so you answer simply: “It wasn’t enough for me. Would it be enough for you?”

“No, it wouldn’t be.”

You’re not sure he’s totally satisfied with your answer, but he doesn’t follow up. Instead he glances around the room distractedly. The patrons all seem engrossed in their own discussions, a dull murmur fills the close, somewhat stale air. He takes a sip of his old fashioned and clears his throat, leaning forward a bit.

“About the other day, in my office- I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable. It's a dad thing I guess- a let-me-fix-this thing.” His lisp has gotten more pronounced as the night has gone on, you notice.

“Not at all. Your dad skills came in handy.” You hold up your index finger. “See? All fixed. Don’t give it another thought.”

“Ok,” he responds, the corner of mouth going up a bit. “I’ll try not to.”

You move to cross your leg over the other but brush his accidentally. It's unintentional but contact nevertheless, and it sends a small shiver up your spine. His eyes flick down and up. 

At that moment Susan leans over to interrupt. “Ok, we have got to call it a night. I’m getting dangerously close to inebriated and I cannot do the train hungover.”

“ _Close_ to inebriated?” Jake asks. “I’m already there.”

“I forgot, you’re not much of a drinker.” She raises an eyebrow. “Not usually one for late nights either. The company must be exceptional.”

“Don’t flatter yourself too much, Susan. It beats the alternative. Pretty quiet at home these days.”

“I wasn’t referring to myself.” Susan lets that remark sit for just a moment. “Hey, chin up, aren’t you America’s sexiest news anchor?”

“That’s Steve Kornacki. I think. I can’t keep track.”

“Sure you can’t. Can I give you some advice? You have to stop feeling sorry for yourself, get back on the horse, online dating and what not. Personally, I’m so much happier since my divorce, swear to god. Oh and Sam- go find your friends. It’s been nice of you to humor us old folks but it’s lights out at the retirement community now.”

You respond sarcastically that you’re an old soul, really, but she and Mort are already out the door and disappearing into the night. You speak quickly to fill the silence left by their abrupt exit. “I should probably call it a night too, actually.”

“Can I get you a cab?” Jake asks.

You can’t help but tease him a bit. “That’s a charmingly archaic phrase. Heard of Uber? Actually, I was planning on walking. I’m quite close by.”

“Seriously?” He says incredulously. “It’s freezing out. And it’s late. I’m not sure it’s safe.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m still used to New York- the cold weather and the late night crowds.” You turn to look out the window. “It looks deserted out there, and it’s barely one AM. Amateurs.”

He laughs. “Harsh but fair assessment. I’m not letting you walk home alone, though. Think of the press if something were to happen to you.” He switches to his newscaster voice. “‘Her body has yet to be located, but sources say she was last seen with her boss, Jake Tapper.’”

“Here I thought you were concerned for my safety.”

“Nah. Just my reputation.” He pauses. “I could walk you home.”

You’re not sure if that would be much better for his reputation, but if he hasn't considered that, you’re not going to be the one to point it out.

“Ok, if you insist. Bundle up, though, you look cold already.”

The conversation flows easily as you walk together through the quiet streets. You talk not about work exactly, but more abstractly about books, news, writing, politics… as someone who asks questions for a living he’s good at feigning interest, but it feels genuine. Though your taste differs, he notes that you have a duality in common, both of you being obsessed with facts, news, the truth... and yet fascinated with fiction. You counter that perhaps more than that, it’s the places that they overlap, blur together, that interest you most- trying to make sense of those places. He says he thinks that’s right.

Snow starts to fall, lightly, but real flakes. The type that stays crystallized for a moment when it lands on your coat and in your hair. The moment feels similarly fragile, like any wrong movement or word could cause whatever’s built up between you to fade in an instant. You find yourself foolishly wanting to remain in this world of possibility where someone like him and someone like you could connect like this.

By the time you arrive at the doorstep of your place, though, the snow has turned wetter, almost a freezing rain. You insist that he come up on the porch to wait for his car, where there’s at least a little cover. It doesn’t make sense to stand out in the cold, but inviting him inside, even for the most innocent of reasons, seems unthinkable. Jake just knowing where you live feels intimate enough. Thank god the other tenants in your building are out of town for the weekend so there won’t be any awkward run-ins.

You take a glove off to fish out your keys from your purse and when you look up he's wearing a curious expression, arms crossed, his right hand stroking his chin. “Hey, you don’t think Susan and Mort....?”

“God, I hope not. She’d eat him alive,” you respond, and you exchange conspiratorial grins. The warmth of his smile feels so good, you can’t help but bask in it for a moment, but now you wonder if you’re looking too long, or he is. You can never tell if it’s you or him that’s doing it, maybe the affinity between you both is too strong to be able to make such a distinction.

“So.” He takes a step closer to you. He looks like he’s working something out in his head, weighing options.

“So?”

“You’re opposed to office dalliances in general, or just in their case?”

Your skin prickles all over with warmth at the question, despite the cold. He’s put it ambiguously, there’s a hint of humor in his voice, but his eyes give him away- they’re expectant. 

“I guess it depends,” you answer. An evasive response, but you manage to keep your gaze level with his.

He takes another step forward, closing the gap between you. “On what?”

It’s exceedingly quiet out, not a soul is around, probably due to the freezing rain and cold temperature. DC is not known for its toughness when, on the rare occasion, it encounters real winter weather. It makes you both speak softly.

“Why do you want to know?” you ask. You have to make sure this is what you think it is.

His eyes are on your mouth when he replies. “You shouldn’t ask a question like that unless you want to know the answer.”

The two of you are speaking in vague hypotheticals, flirting with something that really shouldn’t happen. There’s only one possible response you can give, though. 

“I want to know everything.”

“Me, too. Right now though, I just want to know about you. Everything about you.”

He picks up your right hand in his and turns it over, strokes his finger over yours, right where the splinter had been. It feels as if, although it had been removed easily that day, something had remained lodged within you, a desire you’d tried to repress. The intensity of it is suddenly laid bare, and you can see it reflected in his eyes. He’s not known for concealing his emotions and you’ve never been good at that either. Plainly there’s an attraction. 

A scolding voice in the corner of your mind reminds you that you’re going too far again- you’re too curious, you want too much… but you press it down. You think, “let me have this.” In a way, you’ve been slowly undressing each other the whole night, peeling back layers, and now it almost feels inevitable that it’s led to this.

You’re the one that initiates the kiss, but he’s the one that deepens it, slips his tongue in your mouth. He grasps the angle of your jaw to tilt your head up and kiss you more urgently, his fingers trailing down your neck. His lips are soft but demanding, his touch deliberate, neither too firm or too light.

He pulls back for a moment. “I wasn’t sure you liked me at first,” he says, bemused.

“I’m not sure I do,” you answer. “Maybe this will help me decide.”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, I think I can win you over.” The tinge of arrogance in his voice is irritatingly sexy, but he’s kissing you again, crowding you against the doorway, before you can think of a clever retort. It’s almost embarrassing how easily you come undone in his arms. He’s unbuttoned your coat and his hands glide against the velvet of your dress from your hips, up your ribcage, to palm your chest; if feeling a girl up against her front door is something that can be discreetly done, he’s managing it rather expertly. You can’t get enough of his clever mouth, his clever fingers, he feels so deliciously hot against you, in contrast to the cold air. For a moment you wonder if these are the same moves he used in another life, going through women as a reporter on the campaign trail 20 years ago (you’ve heard a rumor here and there). You find the thought oddly thrilling. You hadn’t known that you were into such a difference in age, experience, standing, but now it seems to unlock new dimensions of erotic possibility. You wonder if Jake feels it, too. He pulls your hips towards his and when he nudges his leg between yours, the solidity of his body flush against yours, a sigh escapes your lips.

At the sound he suddenly pulls away. “Sorry- this is a terrible idea,” he says. He presses his fingers to his eyes, takes a sharp breath in and out. “This is absolutely not me. It’s been difficult with the separation and I... I haven’t been adjusting well. I have no idea _if_ I should start dating again, no idea _how_ to... But that’s my problem and I’d hate to make it yours, especially since, you know, I’m your boss.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “This can’t happen, you know? As much as I’d like it to.”

The dreamlike haze of the night lifts for a moment. He’s your boss. Not only that, his personal life is complicated at the moment. Of course this can’t happen.

“You’re absolutely right,” you assure him quickly. “Please, let's forget it. Too much alcohol, that’s all. Can we blame Susan? She bears at least partial responsibility, what with all of those birthday drinks.”

He smiles at the mention of Susan but then throws his head back and groans at that last part. “God, and it’s your birthday. If I wasn’t-“

His eyes scan yours. “Can I just say something? Like, in light of what just happened? And then we’ll never speak of this again. Or, you can tell me to shut up now.” 

You lean back against the door. “Go ahead.”

He steps in closer again and speaks quietly in your ear.

“If I wasn’t your boss, I would take you upstairs immediately, and I would give you anything you wanted from me, truly. Ideally that would involve me eating you out because I’d really love to do that.”

Your mouth drops open. You’re not sure what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that. You force yourself to look him in the eye. He doesn’t look the least bit self-conscious. It’s the truth, he means it, maybe it’s as simple as that for him. Though he prides himself on being impartial, a bastion of truth and fairness, he’s more mercurial, more unpredictable than that description would suggest. 

You take a deep breath and your surprise gives way to curiosity. “Then what?”

“Well, would you want me to fuck you?”

The words nearly cause your brain to short circuit. He must know the answer by now, but he wants to hear you say it. Of course you comply.

“Yes. Honestly I’d be begging you for it at that point.”

Your faces are inches apart, Jake's eyes are on your lips but you don’t dare to kiss him again. This is something different, now. Beyond what happened and what didn’t is what you both _wanted_ to happen- fantasy, you suppose. Fiction, but with something true at the heart of it.

He looks down at you, head tilted, and says thoughtfully, “How would you want it? Gentle?” 

Your mouth has gone dry. You manage to shake your head.

He lets out a huff of breath. “Good. I’m not sure I could manage that. It would be too overwhelming for me.” You don’t doubt it, you know now he’d approach sex like he did everything in life- thorough, intense, entirely focused. “Would you be loud?” he continues. “I think you might be. Maybe I’d have you suck my fingers, because I can’t stop thinking about you in my office that day. You made me so hard, I was sure you’d noticed.”

One of the incongruously sexy things about him is that his voice is decidedly not deep or melodious. There’s a whine to it that makes him sound almost desperate for you. You’d like to hear it strained, hear it break, hear it say all manner of shocking things. But just then his phone pings, and once again the spell between you is broken.

“Well,” you say, slightly breathless. “Too bad all of that can’t happen.”

“It really is.” He swallows. Checks his phone.

“My car is coming,” he says softly, for lack of anything else.

“Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.” Jake lingers for just a moment, breathes you in. Then he draws back, pulls on the lapels of his coat. You recognize the habit- it’s a reset motion for him, helps him regain his composure. He sets his mouth in a tight line and nods. Then he turns on his heel and walks out to meet the black car that's just pulling up.

You watch it drive away quietly down the snow dusted street. You take a deep breath of cold air. His rejection- his confession- feels as much exhilarating as crushing- it’s a radiant ache, to desire someone you can’t have so badly and to know that he wants you like that, too. It’s almost enough. 

Maybe tomorrow you’ll regret what happened. Maybe you’ll regret what didn’t. Maybe this thing between you has a momentum that can’t be stopped. You can’t wait to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter! @nevercursed_
> 
> title comes from the song "lean on you" by helena deland, link is posted below.
> 
> “it's impossible as always to forget/ something that hasn't happened yet"
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0jx5ssY7YI


End file.
